Flash fiction written for a contest.
“Tell us the story again, Jack.”
“Why do you want to hear it again, I’ve already told it a hundred times, why don’t you tell it?”
Carl said, “I like the way you tell it, I feel like I’m really there.”
“Forget the story, it only makes you cry when I finish it.”
“That’s because you make me see the grass when you tell the story and I have no idea what grass is supposed to look like, I can actually feel the wind as it swirls over the grass. Just once I would like to touch it for real, to lay on it. Yes, I cry, but its tears of joy.”
“You know it’s just a story, it’s fiction, grass is not real!”
“Nope, it’s a made up story, it’s time for you to grow up and accept your lot in life, this is as good as it gets.”
“I don’t believe you. I’ve had enough, I’m going to leave at three a.m. and I’m taking Skippy with me, come with us.”
“You’re crazy, you go outside and you will dry up and blow away, there’s nothing but death and disappointment waiting for you out there.”
“It beats wasting away in here, Jack you’re nothing but talk, where’s your sense of adventure, this is no life, remember three a.m. and then I’m gone.”
(5 years later)
The underground well has dried up and there is no more water.
Jack lay dying, his last words were, at least I survived, that’s better than that fool Carl.
Carl watched as Skippy rolled in the grass, he knew they should of died 10 times over, but they made it, he wished Jack could see it, but some horses would rather tell stories than take a chance on life.